


Two Out of Three

by nishizono



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur lives by the motto, '<i>a place for everything and everything in its place</i>,' and that works out just fine unless the thing in question is Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Out of Three

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** None of these characters are mine, nor am I being paid to play with them. All characters depicted in sexual situations are considered by the author to be over the age of eighteen, regardless of their age in the source material.

They aren't friends. They never have been. Their relationship fluctuates between 'enemies' and 'lovers' depending on the situation and their moods. They've never actually fought, though, and they've certainly never fucked, so there's not really a term for what they have.

The lack of definition eats away at Arthur, who has practically made a religion of tidiness. Everything he does, from his color-coordinated filing systems to the way he folds his underwear, is an effort to categorize the universe. That is his job. That's what he excels at. It keeps him useful, and it keeps the others safe. Arthur lives by the motto, ' _a place for everything and everything in its place_ ,' and that works out just fine unless the thing in question is Eames.

Eames isn't human; he's a creature of pure chaos. Not a single thing about him makes sense. His ties never match his shirts-- his _shirts_ don't even match his shirts-- his neatly combed hair doesn't match the four day stubble on his cheeks, and his full lips don't match the hardness of his jaw. Everything about Eames is a contradiction, and it physically pains Arthur to look at him.

Yet Arthur can't stop staring.

He's not sure how it happened, or when he started to wonder what it would feel like to have Eames shove him against a wall and kiss him. It can't have happened suddenly, or else he would have realized it sometime _before_ he wound up alone in his hotel room, with his hand on his cock and his mind full of Eames. But however this obsession started, it's there now, and he can't get rid of it no matter how hard he tries. It's driving him insane.

Eventually, Arthur decides there are only three possible solutions to his problem: pick a fight with Eames from which their relationship can never recover, sleep with him, or lower his defenses and try to build a lasting friendship. The only problem is that each of those possibilities excludes the other two by necessity, and Arthur isn't sure he's ready to let go.

In the end, Eames makes the decision for him.

The day starts out normally enough. Saito has them set up in the penthouse of a Spanish hotel. It's the nicest place they've ever worked out of, and even though Arthur feels a strange nostalgia for the good old days of Cobb and his rotting warehouses, he's grateful to not have to share his workspace with rats. Unfortunately, he _does_ have to share his workspace with Eames.

They have the large French doors open to the balcony, where Eames has set himself up with a laptop and a glass of whiskey. From the lack of typing sounds, Arthur guesses the whiskey is getting most of the attention. Usually, Arthur would just accept that Eames is being Eames (that's something he's had to resign himself to, because it's either that or lose his mind), but given that he spent the previous night tossing and turning, and trying his best not to dream about Eames, he's not in the mood to pick up his teammate's slack.

“Mister Eames.” Arthur slips his hands into his pockets and leans against the doorframe. Eames has his bare feet propped up on the balcony railing. His head is tipped back and there's a smile on his face. The top three buttons of his shirt are open, and he's missing a cufflink. Arthur wants to hit him.

“How can I be of assistance, darling?”

“By doing your job,” Arthur snaps. He hears Yusuf and Ariadne fall silent behind him, probably listening to his conversation with Eames and waiting for it to explode. It never does, of course-- Arthur is far too controlled to let that happen-- but that doesn't stop the others from expecting it.

Eames opens his eyes as lazily as he does everything else. “But I _am_ doing my job.” He gestures with his glass of whiskey. “The man I'm forging is an alcoholic. I'm merely getting a feel for his character. It's called method acting.”

“It's called drinking on the job,” Arthur replies as he pushes away from the doorframe and moves to stand directly in front of Eames. From this vantage point, he can see Yusuf and Ariadne watching them from the other room, though they look away when they realize they've been caught.

“Arthur, dearest, love of my life,” Eames drawls, “you really _must_ lighten up. It's a beautiful day in a beautiful city. There's no reason to be so dour.”

Something inside Arthur breaks, and it must show in his expression because suddenly, Ariadne and Yusuf are packing up their things and announcing that they're going out for lunch. Arthur waits until they're gone, then leans down until he and Eames are at eye level with each other. When Eames grins at him, Arthur makes a choice. “Stand up.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I said stand up.” Arthur takes a step back and glares at Eames until he complies.

Eames looks confused, but he puts his glass down and pushes to his feet. “You know, love, there's a lot to be said for manners. A little 'please' once in awhile--”

Arthur punches him; he punches Eames hard enough to make his hand hurt and hard enough to make Eames stumble backwards. The adrenaline rush makes him want to do it again, but he keeps his hands to himself and waits.

Eames stands there with his face turned away and his fingertips pressed to his jaw. There's a red mark where Arthur's knuckles made contact, and Arthur can't wait for it to darken to a bruise. After a moment of silence, Eames murmurs, “You hit me.”

“Yes.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Eames asks. When he looks at Arthur again, his eyes are narrowed and there's a muscle twitching his jaw.

Arthur realizes, just a little too late, that Eames can be terrifying when he's angry.

“And here I thought we were friends, _love_.” Eames advances on Arthur, slinks toward him with a predatory grace that makes Arthur feel like a trapped, frightened rabbit.

Arthur takes a step backward, then another, and another, until he's pressed against the balcony railing with Eames bearing down on him. His heart is hammering in his chest and his palms are sweating (and he knows it's not just fear that's making him react this way) but he doesn't back down and his gaze doesn't waver.

“You've been wanting to do that for ages, haven't you?” Eames whispers. It's intimate, like he's sharing a secret or making a confession, and it makes Arthur shiver.

“Yes,” Arthur replies. He's surprised by how steady his voice sounds, all things considered.

“One good turn deserves another,” Eames says, and he's close now, crowding Arthur's personal space and trapping him against the railing. “I think you owe me a little something now, don't you?”

Arthur glares. This isn't what he'd expected to happen. He'd expected to pick a fight, maybe get his ass kicked, and then walk away, secure in the knowledge that he and Eames would never be anything more than grudging co-workers. Of course, it's still too early to call the game, but he doesn't like the tone of Eames' voice. When Eames doesn't say anything more, Arthur gives in to curiosity and asks, “Like what?”

“This,” Eames murmurs.

Arthur braces himself for impact, but Eames doesn't hit him; Eames kisses him, and Arthur's heart lodges itself so firmly in his throat that he can barely swallow. The logical part of his brain is telling him to push Eames away and go back inside, but the rest of his body is reacting in ways it hasn't done since puberty. It's shameful, Arthur thinks, that a single kiss can make him feel so out of control.

“I knew you had it in you, darling,” Eames whispers. He pecks Arthur on the lips one last time before pulling away.

Arthur opens his eyes and stares.

Eames is a disaster, even more so than usual; his mouth is swollen and his eyes are bright, and his hair is mussed even though Arthur can't remember grabbing it. For the first time since they've known each other, the sight of his rumpled clothes and scruffy cheeks doesn't make Arthur want to kick him.

“Satisfied?” Arthur asks. He means for it to sound cold, but it comes out breathless.

“Not nearly, love.”

Arthur swallows and grips the railing so hard his knuckles hurt. His knees feel wobbly, and he wants to curse Eames for being the one to make him feel this way.

“Is anything else on offer?” Eames' tone is playful, but there's a seriousness in his expression that makes Arthur feel hot all over.

Arthur considers the question. On one hand, he knows that what Eames is suggesting is a spectacularly bad idea. On the other hand, picking a fight hadn't turned out the way he'd planned, and sleeping with Eames was one of the three possibilities he'd chosen for their future.

“I'll tell you what, darling...” Eames leans in again, so close that Arthur can see how dilated his pupils are. “I'll go back to work and you do the same, and we'll have this conversation again in exactly one week. That should give you more than enough time to make up your mind.”

When Eames turns away and drops into a careless sprawl in the chair, Arthur checks his totem to make sure the last ten minutes haven't been a dream. From the look on Eames' face, no one would ever guess that he'd just finished kissing Arthur senseless.

“Arthur, love, would you mind moving just off to one side? You're blocking the sun.”

Arthur stares at Eames, who's gone back to sipping his whiskey with his eyes closed, then shoves away from the railing to make his way inside. He gets as far as the doorway before Eames says his name. Arthur stops but doesn't turn.

“Seems a bit of a shame, doesn't it? That we're only just now figuring it out? We could have been friends all along.”

Arthur doesn't reply; he doesn't know what to say. He just makes a vague humming sound in the back of his throat and goes back inside, straightens his tie, and sits at his desk with his hands folded neatly in front of him.

They're not quite friends, but they're definitely not enemies. They might end up lovers, but not in any traditional sense of the term. That puts them in another gray area, but for once, Arthur doesn't mind. They'll work it out eventually, he thinks, and if not? Well, two out of three isn't bad.


End file.
